Courtesy - Text

I have arrived in the art prison. Doing what suits the market means being a spider: looking sweet, preparing. After all, how long does one stand in front of a work of art on average? 10… maybe 11 seconds? I can no longer enjoy the Lillet drink, not at 50 degrees in Athens, nor here in the 1. 17. 7. 8. district. Still, a quick swipe to the next fair or the museum with its countless floors. Material science. Always a quick glance at what the thing is called, who made it. There’s something wrong and hypocritical about everything and everyone. When the world just ends—it hurts. But it doesn’t affect us. Where do you stand with your art, colleagues? Raudis.

Why are there so few art critics in Vienna? Where are the critical studies, the art historians, etc.? Always quoting Sabeth Buchmann, Helmut Traxler, because there’s a dissertation in progress. Were you afraid for your reputation back then too?

Why is there only advertising in the art magazines? And when will people finally stop believing they’re just lifestyle magazines, all about finding the right sponsor? These contradictions feel lonely. There must be a way to bridge the gap between not wanting to please and true autonomy and sovereignty. If only I were a trampoline. Successfully making it into the next class is not the point. Patting your own fat belly and saying, “Here I am.” Yes, that’s good. That’s true. Fat is beautiful, and leave me alone! This body—it’s so perfect because it keeps me healthy. I don’t need to please anyone with any cell.

My love goes from me to you, publicly, and it sends a kiss. The gaze lands right in the basket, but why is there no more television? Why is everything filtered? I want to buy everything, smash everything. To walk the path of twilight. To fight vampire*in battles. Laughing at my own ridiculousness. The German language.

Placing stones in my own path. Traps. Traps. Political art. Social welfare office. Fahim Amir is supposedly cis in real life. I don’t get it—how was his toxic attitude interpreted? Please like me. Randomly find 800 euros on the ground. Leave the working class alone. Criticize Wolfram Lotz. Quiet, shut down. Become a shelf. Do animals enjoy having sex with each other or not? Then this thing with love is really just made up. The fetish in the market, the corpse in the cellar. The minority that isn’t heard, only silenced. The people who immediately seem interesting. Consume property. Collectively dragging everyone through the village. Everyone gets their turn. Evil must be endured. Malice and agitation. No room for trolls (Nazi trolls). Waste and shame. Bad moods, sweet tears. Guilt talk on the radio. Protect me, guide me gently.